Fowl Play
by DWforlife
Summary: Mr. Brown misplaces a chicken, Sherlock plays with animals, and John solves a case.
1. Chapter 1

**I've been feeling lately that all my Sherlock fics have been ending with the poor little Watson suffering in one way or another. So, I decided to take a different approach and have John doted on.**

**While Sherlock suffers.**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter One**

People on the streets were pausing in their daily activities to stare nervously up at the windows of the second story flat in 221 Baker Street where the sounds of raised voices were violently shaking the glass of its windows. Inside the flat an angry argument raged on between one Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.

"Everything Sherlock? Why did it have to be /everything I owned/?"

"It wasn't everything. Here."

"Oh! Wonderful! I have a sock. Not a pair mind you. Just the one!" John threw the offending piece of fabric onto the remains of his chair. "How exactly did you accomplish this, Sherlock? Our chairs are right beside each other how did you manage to hit only mine?"

"Flamethrowers are finicky. It's hardly my fault-"

"I _told_ you not to use chemical, fire, or shrapnel based weapons without supervision, Sherlock! We've been over this!"

"I'm not a child, John!"  
_Ring, ring_

"Why the hell were you using it in my room anyway?"

_Ring, ring_

"You're room has the better lighting!"

_Ring, ring_"

_SHUT UP!_" Sherlock and John shouted in unison towards their front door.

"Oo oo," Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. "Don't you boys hear your doorbell?"

Sherlock glanced at his friend. "John."

A vein appeared and threatened to explode in John's neck as he stepped passed Mrs. Hudson. He could be heard muttering promises of pain under his breath the entire way down the stairs.

"Is everything alright? You're making an awful racket up here."

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson. John and I are just having a... disagreement."  
John reappeared in the doorway a moment later, followed by a weeping woman in her mid-fifty's. "Sherlock, this is Mrs. Miller. She says she has a case for you."

Sherlock stared at the distraught woman with an excited hungry look in his eyes. A maniacal smile spread over his face. "Brilliant."

After everyone was settled with a mug of steaming tea in their hand, Mrs. Miller passed Sherlock a photograph of a young man in a football uniform. "That's my son, Timothy." She sniffed. "Just celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday last month."

"And now he's dead. Why come to me? I'm a detective not a necromancer."

John glared at Sherlock while Mrs. Miller let out a horrified sob. When she had collected herself, she continued. "The police say they have nothing further to go on. They say his case has gone cold."

"And you don't believe them?"

"Well..." The grieving mother looked, guiltily at the two men. "I believe they've done everything they can. But that's _not good enough_." She blew her nose and sighed. "My daughter, she's a lawyer here in London; she told about what it is you can do. Money really isn't a problem."

John leaned forward in his chair. "How did your son die, Mrs. Miller?"

"He was- he was stabbed... seven times."

The sounds of Mrs. Miller's harsh sobs were drowned out by the irritated groan of the great detective.

"That's it? Just stabbed? No poisoning, or suspiciously missing body parts?"

Mrs. Miller frowned in confusion. "No."

"Was the body at least disposed of interestingly?"

"That's the worst part." She sniffed, "His body was found in the hayloft of a local farm. The Brown's, lovely couple. He was naked, there was no identification on him whatsoever. I had to go in and ID my child's body."

Sherlock tutted. "He probably got into an argument with another local, which in turn got out of hand and lead to his untimely demise. The killer then panicked and dumped the body. Which is, simply put, dull, boring and not worth my time. Good day Mrs. Miller, I'd stay at a hotel tonight. That boyfriend your daughter forgot to mention _is_ coming by tonight, an unplanned visit from her mother might not go over well."

There was a long moment of tense silence. "Sherlock."

John shot their guest a smile before relaying the rest of his message to Sherlock through facial expression alone. _You're driving me insane. Take the damn case._

_But John_-

_Take_ _it or the next murder you'll be solving will be your own._

_Oh for crying out loud. _Fine!

Sherlock sighed. "I've been told I'll take your case."

Mrs. Miller blinked. "You'll help?"

Sherlock looked pleadingly at John, who answered for the overgrown child. "Yes, Mrs. Miller, we'll be happy to help."


	2. Chapter 2

**If you haven't already guessed this story will be ****_complete_**** crack**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 2**

Sherlock pulled their rented car up to a two-story farmhouse. The farm was several miles away from the town where Mrs. Miller and her family lived, and Sherlock was bemoaning the extra exertion driving all the way there just to investigate a crime he could solve, "blindfolded, while submerged underwater, with both hands tied behind my back, and asleep."

John was happily ignoring him.

When they knocked on the door, it opened to reveal an elderly couple clearly just home from a funeral. "Can we help you, gentlemen?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes. This is my associate, Dr. John Watson, I'm a consulting detective from-"

"Are you here about my chicken?"

Sherlock and John stared at the man with a shared blank expression. "Your... chicken?"

"Yeah. Misplaced one couple days ago, can't find her anywhere. Phoned the police, they told me they'd send someone over."

"No I'm not here about the chicken, Mr. Brown. I'm here about the dead body in your hayloft." Sherlock sighed. "The one who's funeral you've just attended."

"Oh that. What more is there to know? Told the police everything I knew didn't I, Maryann?"

His wife nodded. "That's right he told them _everything_."

Sherlock gave the interior of their home a quick once over from the doorway. "I'm sure you did. All I want is to examine the crime scene."

Mr. Brown frowned. "Don't know what good that'll do you. Nothing left up there but a couple bales of hay, and a pitchfork."

"And I imagine those'll tell me more than you ever could. You knew the victim?"

"That's right." Mr. Brown nodded.

"Little Timmy Miller." Mrs. Brown added. "Such a smart young thing he was, I taught him piano when he was only this high. Such a shame what happened to him."

"Known him a long time then, good. Saves me the trip to town. Tell John anything and everything you can about this Timmy Miller, friends, enemies, hobbies, unpaid gambling debts, anything that comes to mind. I'll be in the barn."

"What an odd person." Mr. Brown muttered as they watched the detective retreat, coat billowing dramatically around him.

"You don't know the half of it." The blogger replied. "Shall we get started then?"

Mr. Brown nodded. "I think I'd best let my wife do the talking. She knows everything that happens around this place. Has to, being the town gossip and all."

"You mind your tongue William Brown." She beamed at John. "Come in Mr. Watson, I'll make us some tea; would you like a slice of pie?"

* * *

_Scratch marks_.

Sherlock bent for a closer examination of the door frame. "Report said no signs of forced entry, but these.. no old door, old floor. Clearly just... just..." The detective frowned. Something did not feel right. "What _is_ that?" He turned his head just in time to see a scruffy calico barn cat settle itself right between his shoulder blades. "Get off."

"Miaow."

Sherlock gave his shoulders an experimental shake, but the cat only dug her claws in deeper. "I don't have any food. Go away."

"Miaow."

The detective sighed. "John?" He called. No response. "I'm going to stand up now, and you're going to fall off."

"Miaow."

Sherlock stood.

"You can't seriously still be on me."

"Miaow."

"Do you have glue on your paws? Get off!"

* * *

Back up at the house, and blissfully unaware of his friend's cat problems, John was being treated to another detailed story of the life and times of Timothy Miller. From what the doctor understood, Timothy Miller had been a model citizen. He'd been working as a student teacher at the local school and hadn't had as much as a single overdue book to his name. He'd been planning on proposing to his long time girlfriend, and the two were looking at houses in the town. As far as John could tell, there was no reason for Timothy to have been killed.

* * *

In a last ditch effort to rid himself of the unexpected nuisance, Sherlock had sacrificed his beloved coat to the feline's sharp grip. Sherlock sent one final glare at the animal, who beamed back knowingly at him, before he stepped inside the dimly lit barn.

A single cow stood inside the small shelter. There was a single piece of hay stuck out of its mouth, as it watched the newcomer with mild interest. After the cat debacle Sherlock refused to be bested by any animal of lesser intelligence than himself. He pulled himself to his full height and began to stride towards the cow. "Move aside cow. I need to examine-"

The cow took a single step towards the detective. Sherlock paused.

After a beat, he began to move again at a slower pace. "Just relax cow, I'm not going to hurt yo-"

The beast flared it's nostrils and began beating it paw against the floor.  
Sherlock swallowed. "I'm not going to... I'm not... I'm..."

John sat beside Mrs. Brown on their swinging chair out front, slowly working through his second helping of potato salad as she passed him photograph after photograph from a very worn album. Beside him, Mr. Brown was whittling on a rocking chair that looked older than the man himself.

"Now this is Mrs. Miller's granddaughter, Emily, Tim's sister. Pretty young thing, we had her all matched up with Jasper Martin from the village. Shocked everyone when she decided to pursue a career in politics instead of settling down and marrying like all the other proper young girls her age were doing."

John nodded taking the picture to examine it. "Tell me"

"_JOHN!JOHN!JOHN!JOHN!JOHN!JOHN!JOHN!_"

Sherlock ran past the farmhouse at full speed, his arms outstretched in front of him like a Hanna Barbara cartoon while 2000 pounds of beef was hot on his heels.

"Stop bothering the animals Sherlock." John called to him.

Mr. Brown glanced up from his perch with a mild hum. "Looks like he riled up ol' Rosco the bull. Pretty territorial animal when he wants to be. Cost me two farm hands just to get him into that pen. Rest their souls."

"_JOHN!JOHN!JOHN!JOHN!JOHN!JOHN!JOHN!_"

"That's right Mr. Holmes." Mr. Brown called. "Lead him back to the barn if you'd be so kind!" They watched as Sherlock rounded a corner with the bull still close on his tail. "Tell him what that Jasper boy said after she left, Maryann."

John looked between the two. "What did he say?"

Mrs. Brown grabbed her album. "Now let me just see if I have a photo."


End file.
